[AN: Would anyone notice if I just copy/pasted the original text in? I bet not.]

Listening to her sing, in the room they'd given him, was a unique kind of torture. Summers had to be some kind of sadistic bastard to give him quarters within listening distance of Sara's dawntime ritual.
Just *knowing* that he was within feet of her... but shut away from the touch of her skin, the scent of her flesh, the very sight of her - naked or not - and knowing, also, that he was forbidden to go near any of her... that was worse torture for him than anything he knew.
Not even the little dark room had been as bad as this.
He closed his eyes, imagining a future one year and one week distant... with the two of them legally together as husband and wife. Watching in unadorned admiration as she danced in the new day.
Perhaps he would join her dance, revel in her very presence and--
_Stop it. We're not there yet, boyo. Plenty of water to go under the bridge._
He couldn't allow himself that much want. It was already plain and already potentially dangerous... even though he explained. Or tried to explain.
He didn't want to possess Sara.
He wanted to give himself to her. Again and again, if necessary.
He wanted to save her from her own wounds, to help her grow out of self-loathing and rise in beauty to be everything she *could* be.
And he wanted to be with her, for as long as she wanted him.
Mort rose from his bed and prepared for the day's work ahead. Basement stuff, most of it. Washing this or repairing that. Things that needed to be done every day so the world above the surface continued to chug merrily along.
He saved every cent of his wages for a future he could only dream about. A wish... encapsulated in a golden band with a diamond in it.
It was the only long-term goal he could afford to keep - and only then because he kept it deeply secret.
The bastards couldn't take anything they didn't know about.

Ororo was used to Sara being distracted. The price of genius combined with a near-idactic memory was that it took a lot to keep it occupied. Every now and again, she would entertain the girl with a complicated concept, but beyond that, the necessary attendance was usually used to observe how teaching was *done*.
Sara was more distracted than normal. Ororo could tell by the way her textbook was negligently open, no page yet turned, and her almost listless way of doodling.
"Sara?" she prompted.
Sara chewed on her pencil, looking down, but not *at* anything.
"Hmn?" At last, she focussed on the board. "Heisenburg."
Ororo tried valiantly not to fume. Obviously, Sara was in economy mode, today. "Elaborate, please?"
"Heisenburg's uncertainty principle. The act of observing changes the subject being observed. Therefore, there are no definitive answers... no absolutes. We have best-fit assumptions, but that's all. There's no real answers, anywhere, to anything."
Ororo looked to the board. Heisenburg had very little to do with the problem at hand. In fact, the gentleman mostly responsible was Newton. Either Sara was being purposely evasive, or her mind was miles from the actual classroom. "Can you give us a best-fit answer to this problem, please?"
Again, she surfaced listlessly from whatever depths she was trying to return to. "Twenty-eight meters per second per second, plus or minus five meters per second per second, depending on the interferance vectors." She sank again, into the depths of her own thoughts.
Ororo briefly considered the fight necessary to drag her back up again for a demonstration of the math involved, but decided against it. Whatever thought-problem had engaged her, it wasn't as interesting as real life, right now. She'd find out when Sara was bouncing off the walls in full-on entheusiasm mode, babbling at ninety words a second or even faster.
Ororo demonstrated the math, but made a mental note about consulting the Professor with regards to Sara's on/off switches.


There was a numbness in work. Something to do in order to eliminate thought. He didn't have to think about his current situation vis-a-vis his personal relationship and the current lack thereof.
_It's only a week,_ he reminded himself. _Seven days._
Hell. He'd spent longer stretches of time in various forms of punishment and deprivation. Seven days was a lark.
But then... he'd never had anyone *else* to worry about, before.
He threw himself into peeling vegetables. He shouldn't have to worry. She had the freedom of the morning sun and the labyrinthine depths of the libraries and an infinite opportunity to stretch.
She had everything she needed.
With enough busywork she might even forget--
His hand slipped and the peeler went into his thumb.
"Gah! Fucking *Norah*![1]" He quickly put down his work and rinsed the wound. Cold water numbed his hand enough to allow him to inspect it. Geez. That was going to need professional help.
The instant he found a paper towel to dry the wound, he was dripping all over the scenery. Fun.
Mort improvised as best he could and tried to keep the red splashes off the floors that he would certainly have to clean, later.
There was someone in the medical centre when he got there. There was always some minor mishap involving flying objects, mutant powers, or a combination of the two. All he could see of this day's victim was a pair of shoes past both Dr McCoy's and Wagner's backs.
"...solutely not. I checked. She just - wasn't paying attention." Wagner shrugged. "By the time I realized what was happening... beendet. It was already over."
"There," said Hank. "You can move, now."
Wagner did, getting out of Hank's way.
"Sara," Mort blurted. She bore few indications of physical injuries, bar a couple of adhesive medical strips. There were some gauze wrappings on an arm. "Wot th' *fuck*?"
Wagner was looking agitated. "She walked straight when the stairs went down," he said. "There was no time..." His hands flexed helplessly. "If I was just a few paces further forward..."
"Tell me she's gonna be all right?" Mort begged.
"I'll make certain," Hank soothed. "You're bleeding, Mr Toynbee."
"Mort," he corrected. "I'm allowed t' call you 'Hank', you should call me Mort." He allowed the house physician to take posession of his injured hand. Let himself be lead wherever he had to be. He didn't feel a thing as Hank probed, cleaned, stitched, antiseptized and bound his wound.
He'd never known that fear for another was such a powerful anaesthetic.
Wagner, hovering over her, met his gaze. "I'll watch over her," he promised. "You should get back to what you were doing, ja?"
Mort held up his sore thumb. "Doubt if I'll be good for peelin' stuff."
"Stay away from blades," Hank advised. "Any blades."
"Righ'..." said Mort. At least it was his sinister hand that was injured. He could cope. Just. "Look after 'er?"
"Take it as given." Hank escorted him out.
It was the hardest thing in the world to walk away.

[1] I have no idea why people say that, but they do.


Sara opened her eyes to Mr Scott Summers hovering over her. _Talk about unwelcome awakenings... is it too late to feign a blur into consciousness and fake a coma until he goes away?_
_Yes,_ 'said' the Professor.
"What the hell were you thinking?" demanded Mr Summers. "This morning, you were a walking advice column and this afternoon, you're unconscious from falling down a flight of *stairs* that you didn't *see*.... What the hell is *UP* with that?"
"I was working on something," she said. "Possible solutions to make the week go faster, combined with methods of proving Mortimer's integrity without actually communicating with him. I *meant* to walk down the hall, but I must've sidestepped in the wrong direction on autopilot." Her fingers became briefly intrigued by the gauze. "I'm guessing I fell into something breakable?"
"You shouldn't *be* on 'autopilot' in the halls," Mr Summers raved. "Are you aware of how close you came to serious injury?"
"Depending on the vectors, on a strictly straight-line basis, five centimetres to fifteen centimetres." She blushed. "I kind of absorbed a copy of Grey's Anatomy a long time ago, so I know where the arteries are... there were these rumours going around, and--"
"Sara," said the Professor. "You're not usually this careless."
"I don't usually come across social math," she said. "I'm still trying to define the Summers equation."
"Social. Math," Mr Summers repeated.
"Blame Pythagorus. He said everything is numbers, and - short of finding your file and riffling through it - your numbers are interestingly complex."
He faced the Professor and said, "I'm an *equation*."
The Professor was rubbing his lips and trying not to smirk. "Actually, the concept is rather interesting..."
"You're not helping, sir."
"Consider it, Mr Summers. You make judgements on people based on the company you keep; and yet, I'm the innocent in need of protecting whilst Mortimer is still technically evil for his quote-unquote 'work' with the megalomaniacal engine part."
The Professor snorted.
"You *are* innocent," he persisted. "You *believe* all the stuff he'd fed you. They're nothing but *lies*!"
Sara sighed. "You haven't had the chance to observe without bias, sir. Before I figured out exactly who he was, I knew that there was a history of abuse. I gave him medical care, and I *know* what inflicted wounds look like. I also know what self-inflicted wounds look like... accidental or otherwise. The proportion of accidental scars is minimal - and they are the only self-inflicted wounds availlable."
"You can't know how old those scars are - or how long he was working with Magneto."
"I do know that some of them were rather fresh," argued Sara. "And I have a very *long* familliarity with the healing rate of wounds." She upturned her arms, showing the fine, pale lines across her scales where scars used to be on her pink flesh. "Vampire harp." She restrained herself from glaring at the man. "Where is your evidence, Mr Summers?"


Okay. Focus. He was older than her, he knew more about the world[1] than she did. He could beat her in this debate. Besides, she was recently concussed. If she passed out, he could win by default.
_Wait. Stop,_ he told himself. _This isn't about winning... it's about saving her from a damaging decision._
"He was at Liberty Island... *as* it became an event."
"Yes. I know."
"When he was there, he tried to *kill* Jean."
"He tried to," she said. "He did not succeed."
"He *could* have! If I hadn't found her in time--"
"But you did. And you saved her." Sara began folding her infirmary sheet along the top seam. Making a linen concertina. "Do you blame Mortimer for her actual demise?"
"He wasn't there, Mr Summers. He has about two hundred fellow incarcerees as an alibi. Not to mention the assembled media filming us to see if we did anything vaguely entertaining."
"He tried to kill Ororo, too."
"Again, the word 'tried' emerges... my mother would be eager to tell you that there is no reward in trying. Therefore, to my mind, little punishment."
"Attempted murder isn't enough for you?"
"When we were in the camp, sir, Mortimer and I had a lot to talk about. There was very little else to do, you know. He told me he was sent down into your path as an expendable pawn. Should he have perished, no-one would have missed him. Least of all the man who rescued him from a life of squalor and poverty. I get the distinct impression that his efforts against you were deliberately lackluster. Enough of an effort to keep the bosses from calling, if you will[2]. He had no true motive to succeed, and every necessity to not fail." A calm, eerily cold glare. "I've been trapped in that twilight, myself. You'd be surprised where it can drive you."
"The exploding locker incident..." mused Xavier.
Sara nodded. "My last hurrah. My efforts against those enemies were non-lethal by choice. Their efforts against me were damn near lethal out of ignorance." Again, that cold stare-down. "Back then, I only had one person who would have missed me."
"That's... obviously different."
"Is it? Trapped in the care of a Dragon in an unfeeling environment? Being just useful enough to keep? The only real difference between Mortimer's past and my own is that he never had anyone to hold him until he'd cried himself out. There, but for the grace of God... as they say."
"But he's *evil*!"
"He's had more than one opportunity to prove himself so through his actions towards me," she said. "So far, he's taken his chance for redemption with open arms."
Scott played his trump card. "What proof have *you* got that he won't turn against you, later?"
"He's seen me dancing in the dawn's light - only once. The rest of the time, he kept his eyes averted. A purely evil man would have seized a very open opportunity."

[1] Try saying that to *anyone* who's lived through various disprovals of mythos in an all-girls' boarding school.
[2] Side-fling to _Office Space_ Go watch it. Funny ^_^


"Bu--" Scott attempted. The image of a grown - and evil - man in the presence of a girl who was voluntarily naked closed his throat. In the presence of true evil, Sara would not have survived unmolested. She might not have survived at all. "Ju-- hi-- wa--" his brain completely derailed and he turned to the Professor. "Exploding locker incident?"
"Two hundred and seventy-three lockers exploded at Carol Danvers High... on the exact date that Sara was expelled."
"I was on my way out, anyway. What's a little larceny and petty revenge between enemies?"
Hank's shoulders were shaking.
"You were lucky no-one was *killed*!" Scott ranted.
"Luck had nothing to do with it. Each device was completely non-lethal. Offensive - yes. Lethal - never."
"The explosion in this case was nothing more than a small charge to ensure the doors flew open," said Xavier, "and that a payload was -ah- *delivered* to the target."
Sara had a beatific smile on her face. "I still have the securicam footage on file. I tend to play it when I'm extremely depressed."
Scott stared at her in a new light. "That's almost... psychopathic."
"Yes. I know. But I never kill. People can't learn anything when they're dead." The smile faded completely, now. "I came close to murder, once. And only once. I have the Professor and Mortimer to thank for pulling me back from that brink."
The world was turning upside-down. Little girls did not thank terrorists for preventing an act of utmost violence. Little girls did not blow up lockers as an act of 'petty revenge'...
_Little girls do not hear other people's thoughts inside their heads,_ 'said' Xavier. _Nor do little boys accidently rip off their guardian's heads with a blast of concussive force from their eyes._
"You're not being fair," he said to his mentor aloud.
"Am I?"
A quick glimpse of a memory. Sara. Angry - *furious* - at the old man who'd hurt the one she cared for. The ferocious colours of her skin were not nearly as violent as the waves of unadulterated bloodlust washing off her. The animal within was in control and it wanted swift and brutal justice.
And then the very man who had spent years under the old man's heel stepped forward and said three words that drew the animal back. Don't become him.
"She took down Mystique?" Scott boggled. "But she's *horrible* in Defence."
Sara was looking at her fingernails. "All I really remember is that she was in the way after I punched him," she said. "I don't - recall... what I did or how. That's... very disturbing for me."
And Sara was so *good* at remembering everything.
"I can't accept that he's on the level," he finally admitted. "I know what he's done. I know what he's guilty of. He's... he's dangerous for you."
"I'm dangerous for myself, Mr Summers," she said, indicating her new wounds. "If Mortimer was by my side, he would have steered me. Ergo, he has *some* vested interest in my continued wellbeing. You have to admit *that*, at the very least."
Hank checked her pupillary responses. "There. All better. Though we shall be checking on you every couple of hours for a little while. Try not to dive down any more staircases, hm?"
"If I do, I'll try to have better form," Sara joked. She checked her watch. "I missed all my classes."
"I don't think you would have been there for them, anyway," said the Professor. "Even if you were present."
Scott vaguely recalled Ororo saying something about her being miles away in class, that morning. After Physics, there had been Culture Studies with Kurt... sort of an advanced languages class so one could say what they *meant*, as well as what they wanted to say. And after that... her now-infamous tumble.
Kurt had only left her side on a promise from him that he'd watch over her - and a small disaster upstairs that he had to adjudicate.
He had to honour that promise, now.
"Kurt should be having one of his black-and-white schlockfests up in the entertainment room," he said. "He... made me promise to see you safe, and--"
"What better way than to hand me off to someone I like?" she said. "You can relax, Mr Summers. I reserve hate for those who can't help but purposefuly make my life a misery. You, sir, are a mere annoyance in comparison."
For some reason, that was funny. "I can deal with that," he said.


Mort had endured the drudgery of the school's laundry facilities in lieu of being a kitchenhand. After that, there had been heavy lifting and hauling - taking in supplies and placing them in their various storage bins and hoppers.
And after that... his time was his own.
Which meant finding something to occupy his time and thoughts before he drifted, mothlike, towards the flame that was Sara.
He had a bargain to keep.
And miles to go before he could exhaust himself into a coma for the night.
The mental image of her, hurt - let alone alarmingly still and quiet - clung to his mind and tickled his guilt with maniacal glee. It also gave him a seemingly endless supply of nervous energy to burn off. If only he was there. If only she hadn't agreed to that stupid deal. If only Summers wasn't such a complete dick[1]...
God, he needed something to do. Right *NOW*. Or his head would fucking explode.
He found the answer to his troubles in the school gym.

Ororo left the kitchen, heading for the gym. During down-time, Kurt was in one of four places: the chapel, the kitchen, the gym or the entertainment room. She usually checked them in order, owing to the least-cost flight path. Once she found him, there was always something to share and enjoy with him.
Someone was working out, but the someone in the darkened gym was not Kurt.
She could pick out a figure moving in slow repetition on a frame, but beyond that, there was little clue as to who he was.
She flicked on the light, lending colour to the moonlit scene. Green skin stretched tight over sculpted, if wiry, muscle.
The Toad was only wearing a pair of shorts and some wrist and ankle weights. She could pick out every fibre of his muscle as he put it to work.
She could see every ancient scar on his person.
Kurt's scars were beatuiful. A work of art in the understanding of pennance.
These markings were a history of pennance, true, but they were anything but art.
Long years of association with Jean helped her catalogue them. Glass bottle there. Cigarettes there. Some kind of whip or cord used like a whip until he bled. Knife wounds, criss-crossing or merging. The ugly snarl of a burn...
They were all over him.
Even the soles of his feet.
He turned upside-down, revealling more marks. Some nearly surgical... most of them - not.
The burn scar - or part of it - vanished inside the shorts.
And most recent, on top of everything, were the marks she'd given him. The lightning she made left its traces in the history already drawn on his flesh.
Sara had seen all of it. Treated it. Made it better... She knew the exact ins and outs of the pain she'd delivered. The lingering agony of recovery. She *knew*... and yet she still treated Ororo like a decent human being.
Mort's eyes were open. "Enjoyin' the show, luv?"
"I..." it was so difficult to meet those eyes. "I'm - sorry I hurt you."
"I'm not," he said. "Gave me a new life, you did. Let me meet *her*." He eased his weight onto one arm, balancing whilst pushing himself slowly up and down. "It ain't every day you ge' a second life." He swapped hands.
"I'm still sorry," she said. "I regret what I did."
"It was you or me," he said. "Frankly, I never was keen on hurtin' pretty gels. 'D'rather take me lumps'n get it over with. Coulda done without some of it, but..." he flipped around, tumbling through the air to land in front of her. "It happened the way it did," he shrugged. "Water under the bridge, eh?" Mort offered his hand.
She took it. Sort of cool and almost unnaturally smooth. "Water under the bridge."

[1] Fling to the first movie. C'mon... chorus the lines, now: "Hey. It's me."/"Prove it."/"You're a dick."/"Okay."


They were watching _The Bluebird_ with Shirley Temple. Some, like all true fans of MST3K, were heckling the living crap out of it. The quieter ones were appreciating the original dialogue, in-between seeking out lightweight munchables.
A boy and a girl in the Land of the Future were refusing to part, despite the fact that it was time for the boy to be born.
"But sir... we're in love."
Sara, who had so far been silent in the shadows, sobbed once.
Kurt glanced her way. Her ever-emotive skin was showing blues and greys.
"I'll look for you," swore the girl. "I'll search everywhere."
"Look for the saddest being on the planet," said the boy from the boat. "And you will find me."[1]
And Sara just curled up in on herself and burst into tears.
Kurt managed to escort her out of the room with a minimum of fuss. If word hadn't already gone around about her deal, then it was certainly going to get about *now*.
The real problem, he thought as he attempted to escort her somewhere quiet, was that once one of her 'boxes' came undone, the entire cache of emotions just flooded right on out. This one was obviously feelings of emotional worthlessness, judging by what he could decipher of her tearful babble.
Ah. There was Ororo in the gym. Maybe she could help.
...and there was Herr Toynbee. Recoiling from her as if freshly scorched.
If he were a more suspicious person, he'd have drawn a completely wrong conclusion from that brief picture and go off the deep end.
But a more suspicious person wouldn't have noticed Toynbee's completely heartfelt look of terror at the sight of Sara in tears. Ororo just ceased to exist for him.
"Trigger?" said Ororo. She'd seen something similar happen, albeit briefly.
"Jawohl," he gingerly patted the poor girl on her back. "Swap?"
"Sure." She scooped Sara off of him and left him with Toynbee, who was going from horrified to bloody furious with very few pitstops. "Peace, freund," he soothed.
"Peace? You swore you'd bloody look after 'er!"
"I can't prevent what I don't anticipate," he said. "There was no warning."
His fists still flexed. "You don't get a lot of warnin's do ya?"
"You never know when her seizures are going to happen..."
Just like that, the anger ran out of him. "...fuck..." Only to be replaced by agitation. "Shit. You think she's doing this to herself? Wreckin' herself out of... out of... Some fuckin' thing..."
"Anxiety?" Kurt prompted. "Worry? Fear?"
"All of the above," he found a punching bag and whalloped it. "Seven fucking days an' I'm already goin' nuts after *one*. I'm gonna be pissin' myself after *three*..."
Kurt, lost for a place to relax, made himself comfortable against a wall. "You know... Scott never actually forbade you to write letters to each other..." He smirked. "I'm certain he won't even think about it if you both keep it -ah- civil?"
"Kurt?" said Mort. "I think I'm startin' to *like* you."

[1] IMO, this scene's way better acted in the Shirley Temple version than the crappy 80's remake. YMMV. The dialogue's from the best of my recall.


December 6.

"She fell down the stairs *AGAIN*?!"
"I was caught in time," said Sara.
"But I caught her this time," said Kurt at exactly the same moment.
"Besides, it was a completely different set of stairs."
"That's not helping, Fraulein."
Scott tore at his hair, making a noise of strain from the effort of holding back on a fully-blown tirade. "Just tell me one thing," he said after he forced himself to relax. "Are you going to be tossing yourself down stairs for the entire *week*?"
"I didn't *toss* myself," objected Sara. "I'd never do this sort of thing voluntarily," her voice fell to a hushed mutter, "...i'm afraid of heights..."
"It's true," said Kurt.
"Why does everybody else in this mansion suddenly become a font of information when you're around?" he wondered at Sara.
"Perhaps I'm like a train wreck," she suggested. "People can't miss the spectacle."
Kurt buried his face in his hands. "You are *not* helping, Fraulein."
"Is it the same stuff as yesterday?" Scott demanded. "Because I thought we dealt with that."
"No!" Sara vibrated with offense. "I never do anything the same way twice. This time, I was reading."
"I thought you could speed-read..."
"I was savouring the material."
"What the hell was so-- no. Never mind. I don't know and I don't want to know. Just - for God's *sake* - *sit* somewhere, okay? No more walking on automatic."
"I'll try not to."
Scott stormed off on other morning business, muttering about damned teenagers and their innate knack for continued chaos.
"My..." said Sara. "You'd think he'd been born at the age of thirty-something."
Kurt laughed. "It's easy to forget you were young, once. Especially when you're worried about someone."
"Hm... saviour complex meets barn door with a horse over the hill[1]. I've never actually witnessed it before..."
Callisto entered, bearing a covered tray. "It turns out we don't really *need* an early warning system in this place. So long as three people are awake to gossip, news gets around quicker than light."
"Well, there *is* Avery and I... Who else is an incurable insomniac?"
Callisto put the tray down to slap herself on the forehead. "...good lord, she's actually thinking of implimenting it," she muttered. Louder, she said, "Kid... Mort heard about this morning's near-disaster and sent this up from the big kitchen. Special delivery."
They were heart-shaped waffles and, judging by the scent, he'd absorbed her recipe by osmosis.
Kurt was drooling. And whimpering.
"It's the cinnamon," said Sara. "Gets them every time." She allowed herself one selfish forkful. Mmmm... maple syrup, too. "Am I allowed to share?"
"I believe the man said, and I quote, 'tell any vultures 'angin' around that there's a limited time offer in the kitchens'."
"Darn. I didn't get to the 'first come, first served' part..."
"Metabolism from hades," said Sara. "Any kind of teleporting would just guzzle energy. QED."
Callisto subtly turned on the ceiling vents in the cosier above-ground kitchen. "How can you still eat after *that* smell?"
"It's just *sulphur*, dear. Completely harmless. Besides," another forkful, "maple syrup cannot be denied."
"Sugar junkie."
"The worst."

[1] Sara shorthand. She thinks Scott's guarding the barn after the horse has been stolen.


"What the hell do you *MEAN* she jumped through a window?" Logan demanded. "I left you in charge for five freakin' minutes..."
"If both of you gentlemen could be so kind as to get out of my *LIGHT*," menaced Hank, "perhaps I can find and extract all of this *glass*..."
"I *mean* we broke for a little fun, someone said 'Hey Sara, go long', and before I could turn around to yell at anyone - *crash*... she'd jumped through the freakin' window."
"Trying to catch a frisbee," Hank tisked.
"I think it was a nerf football... Either way, she missed."
"Didn't miss the window," muttered Logan.
"It was a big window," said Scott. "She couldn't possibly miss."
Sara was in no condition to protest. The 'sedative' Hank had administered to dull the pain had put her into a foggy realm that was half a dream. Right now, she was watching imaginary fish play with her dangling fingers... which were lengthening into some form of frondlike kelp. And since it was either that, suffering her injuries, or being hooked up to a machine that breathed for her; Hank had wisely decided to go with the least problematic solution.
"...th' monkey took th' kumquats..." she murmured.
Neither arguing men payed any attention to this, whatsoever.
"I *told* you to look out for her..."
"Avery was demonstrating how he could be a freaking rail gun[1]..."
"*Light*, gentlemen..." growled Hank. "As in, take your argument out of *mine*."
{Bamf!} "Incoming! Duck and cover, I'll try to hold him off!" {Bamf!}
All three present[2] had just enough time to say, "What the--?" before Kurt's agitated message became clear.
The meaning manifested itself in the form of an extremely pissed-off mutant otherwise known as Mortimer Toynbee.
"You fuckin' yankee *bastard*!" Mort hollered before he impacted with Scott. One sucker-punch, and he was on top of the man, trying to strangle him and lift him by his shirt at the same time. "You were supposed to be lookin' after her! That was part of the fuckin' *DEAL*! How could you let this *HAPPEN*?"
"...y've gotta be quiet, dear... th' skitterlings'll hear you..."
Mort dropped Scott like a bag of offal and tried to insert himself under the frame currently supporting his beloved. "O God... please tell me you're okay, luv? Please be all right?"
"...no... 's half left at Alberquerque..." Sara muttered. Her skin was turning interestingly psychadelic colours. "...h'lo? we allowed t' dance now?"
Mort poked his head above the frame. "The *fuck* did you give 'er?"
Hank continued tweezing shards of glass out of her skin with both hands. "Given miss Adrien's history with regards to medication, I thought it best to go with something extremely mild. It was two millilitres of acetominophen and codeine in a twenty-percent solution."
"...wheeeee..." burbled Sara. "...dance, little fishies..."
"The upside is that she's feeling absolutely no pain."
"...i like pie..."

[1] Affinity with electronics plus the correct type of wiring plus *NO* sense of restraint equals chaos.
[2] Sara's not at home right now ;)


Ororo found him just as he was managing to pick himself up, and helped him the rest of the way to verticality. "Kurt... What *happened* to you?"
There was some nasty swelling happening on one side. Distorting his features. "Make a note, liebchen... Never. *EVER*. Get between people who are deeply in love... when one of them is hurt." He gingerly probed the impact site and winced. "Don't hurt him on my behalf? He wasn't in his right mind."
"I heard about Sara versus the window and knew there'd be fireworks, but... did you have to get in his *way*?"
"He had murder in his eyes. What else could I do?" Unstable on his feet, Kurt leaned on her for support. "Ach... I admit it wasn't one of my *brighter* moments, though."
"Kurt... there have been brighter moments in the *dark*."
The scene in the infirmary made an interesting tableaux. Sara was face-down in a massage frame whilst Hank busied himself with removing tiny shards of glass. Underneath the frame, Mort was blatantly breaking the arrangement by attempting to talk to the girl.
Logan was just helping Scott up to his feet, the latter of whom had obviously *also* been run over by a speeding Toad.
"...five nine two six five three five eight nine[1]..." Sara was reciting in a dreamy voice.
"Thanks for your 'help'," Scott drawled.
"*I* wasn't gonna get in his way," said Logan.
"But you'd *heal*."
"...two three eight four six two six four three three eight three..."
Mort waved his hand in front of Sara's eyes. "Hey," he cooed. "Hey, now, luv."
Ororo hauled Kurt over to a spare bench and went hunting for ice packs. Both he and Scott were going to need them.
"So will you," said Logan. "I just do it quicker. That doesn't mean I actually *like* getting injured."
"...five oh two eight eight four two one one... hello mortimer."
"Nice of ya to see me," he smirked.
Kurt was grateful for the ice pack. "Oooohhhhh... oh ja..."
Scott was in less than high spirits. "Ouch. I'm sure I should -ow- lock one of them up, but -eech- I can't decide which one..."
"I vote 'neither'," said Logan. "They both have friends an' it'll be a revolt."
"You gotta admit -oooh- that kid needs a padded room."
"...what are *you* doing with the fishies?"
Mort clasped one of her hands. "Keepin' you company, of course."
"'That kid', as you put it, needs more than just protecting," said Kurt. "She needs help to heal."
"Not just physically," added Ororo. "Though 'physically' is fast becoming a problem."

[1] Sara also likes Pi.

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